Perhaps

Again the question

How do birds sleep

Do their bulbous voluptuous bodies 

Balance on their thin tiny legs

Because a huge peepul tree

Faces my portico 

And even at 23:50

Two birds, I don't know which kind

Are fooling around on it, 

It's their time of the night, perhaps

As it is mine.

My time.

Once a friend of mine

A very dear one at that

Told me, exasperated 

With hands in the air

That I have everything

I smirked at the fulfillment 

Of possessing everything.

Now, I feel, that

My friend has it all.

Again the question

Why are we so incurably unhappy then. Why

This poem, is an ode to the truth that I have been writing something almost each night now. Writing every night is either a sign of distress. Or contentment, perhaps